My sister and parents surprised me with a high-end crib at my baby shower. “It’s perfect for you!” my sister said with a proud smile. “It cost a lot, so you’d better appreciate it,” my mom joked. But I never once put my baby in it. One day my husband asked, “Why aren’t we using the crib?” I simply smiled and said, “Go ahead—try placing the baby inside.” He did… and the color instantly drained from his face.
They rolled it into the living room dramatically — glossy white panels, gold accents, a thick mattress still shrink-wrapped like treasure. My sister, Tessa, clapped like a game show host.
“This is perfect for you!” she sang, as if she’d just handed me a life-saving organ.
My mother giggled, her mimosa nearly empty.
“It was expensive, so make sure you appreciate it,” she announced loudly enough for every guest to hear.
People gasped. Someone took pictures. I smiled — because that’s what you’re supposed to do when your family performs kindness like theater. But inside, something knotted tight, as if the gift wasn’t as generous as it appeared.
The crib was flawless — too flawless. No marks, no dents, not a single smudge.
Tessa leaned close, her voice syrupy.
“See? Now you can’t say we never do anything for you.” Then, louder, with that fake-sweet smile:
And there it was — the real message.
I hugged them, thanked them, let the applause wash over me. But that evening, after the crowd left and the house was still, I walked alone into the nursery and stared at it under the soft lamp light.
The smell hit first.
Not “brand new furniture” — something harsh, chemical. Like finish that wasn’t cured.
I traced the inside railing. My fingers came away slightly sticky, like something had transferred to my skin.
I told myself I was just being a paranoid pregnant woman. People say hormones make you dramatic, right?
